Cold-Hearted Rake

Temporarily transferring the reins to his left hand, Devon removed his felt hat and pushed it over Kathleen’s head. He proceeded to pull at the twisted, bunched layers of her skirts until she was able to unbend her knee enough to slide her leg over the horse’s withers.

In childhood she had ridden double with the Berwicks’ daughters when they had gone on pony rides. But there was no possible comparison with this, the feeling of a powerfully built man right behind her, his legs bracketing hers. Aside from the horse’s mane, there was nothing to hold on to; no reins to grasp, no stirrups for her feet.

Devon urged the horse into a canter, a gait that was impeccably fluid and smooth in an Arabian or Thoroughbred. But it was different for a wide-chested dray, whose legs were spaced farther from its center of gravity, the three-beat rhythm shorter and rounder. Kathleen perceived immediately that Devon was an accomplished rider, moving easily with the horse and communicating with explicit signals. She worked to find the rolling motion of the canter, but it wasn’t at all the same as riding alone, and she was mortified to find herself bouncing in the saddle like a novice.

Devon’s arm latched more tightly around her. “Easy. I won’t let you fall.”

“But there’s nothing for me to —”

“Just relax into it.”

Feeling how capably he maintained the center of their combined weight, she tried to soften her clenched muscles. The slope of her back came to rest exactly against his chest, and then as if by magic, she found the bend and balance of the horse’s motion. As she melted into the cadence, there was a curious satisfaction in the sensation of their bodies moving in perfect tandem.

Devon’s hand splayed across her midriff with supportive pressure. Even through the mass of her skirts, she could feel the robust muscles of his thighs, flexing rhythmically. An unbearable sweet ache began inside her, intensifying until it seemed as if something might fracture.

As they began up the hill, Devon slowed the dray to a walk and leaned to distribute more weight over the horse’s front legs. Obliged to lean forward as well, Kathleen grasped the dray’s rough black mane. She heard Devon’s voice, muffled by a peal of thunder. Turning her head to hear him better, she felt the electrifying texture of shaven bristle as his jaw brushed her cheek. It sent a ticklish feeling into her throat, as if she’d just bitten into a honeycomb.

“We’re almost there,” Devon repeated, his breath searing against her wet skin.

They ascended the hill and cantered toward the stable block, a two-story building constructed of plum-colored brick, with arched entrances and molded stone surrounds. A dozen saddle horses were housed on one side of the structure, and ten harness horses and a mule on the other side. The stable also housed a saddle room, harness room, tack room, a forage loft, a coach house, and grooms’ chambers.

Compared to the manor house at Eversby Priory, the stables were in far superior condition. Without a doubt that was because of the influence of the stable master, Mr. Bloom, a stout Yorkshire gentleman with white muttonchop whiskers and twinkling blue eyes. What Bloom lacked in height, he made up for in brawn, his hands so meaty and strong that he could crush walnuts with his fingers. No stable had ever been run with more exacting standards: The floors were always scrupulously clean, every piece of tack and leather highly polished. The horses in Bloom’s care lived better than most people. Kathleen had met the stable master approximately a fortnight before Theo’s accident, and she had liked him immediately. Bloom had known about the Carbery Park Stud Farm, and the exceptional Arabian strain that Kathleen’s father had developed, and he had been delighted to include Asad in the Ravenel stables.

In the aftermath of Theo’s accident, Mr. Bloom had supported Kathleen’s decision to keep Asad from being put down, in spite of the demands made by Theo’s friends and peers. Bloom had understood that Theo’s recklessness had contributed to the tragedy. “A horseman should never approach his mount with anger,” Bloom had told Kathleen privately, weeping in the aftermath of Theo’s death. He had known Theo since he’d been a young boy, and had taught him how to ride. “Especially an Arabian. I told Lord Trenear, ‘If tha goes into a pitch battle with Asad, tha’ll excite him to wildness.’ I could see his lordship was having one of his spates. I told him there was a dozen other mounts that were better for him to ride that day. He wouldn’t listen, but I blame mi’sell all the same.”

Kathleen hadn’t been able to make herself return to the stables since Theo’s death. She didn’t blame Asad in the least for what had happened, but she was afraid of what she might feel when she saw him. She had failed Asad, just as she had failed Theo, and she didn’t know when – or how – she could ever come to terms with any of it.

Realizing that they were riding through the stable’s main arch, Kathleen closed her eyes briefly and felt her stomach turn to ice. She clamped her lips together and managed to keep silent. With every breath, she took in the familiar scents of horses and bedding and feed, the comforting smells of her childhood.

Devon stopped the dray and dismounted first, while a pair of stable hands approached.

“Spend extra time caring for his feet, lads,” came Mr. Bloom’s genial voice. “This kind of weather brings thrush.” He looked up Kathleen, his manner changing. “Milady. ’Tis gradely to see thee here again.”

Their gazes met. Kathleen expected a hint of accusation in his eyes, after the way she had avoided the stables and abandoned Asad. But there was only friendliness and concern. She smiled tremulously. “It’s good to see you too, Mr. Bloom.”

As she dismounted, Kathleen was surprised to find Devon assisting her. His hands fit at her waist to ease her descent. She turned to face him, and he removed the hat carefully from her head.

Handing the dripping felt object to the stable master, Devon said, “Thank you for the loan of your hat, Mr. Bloom.”

“I’m glad tha managed to find Lady Trenear in all that rain and wuthering.” Noticing that Kathleen’s gaze had flickered to the row of stalls, Bloom commented, “Asad is in fine fettle, milady. These past weeks, he’s been the best-behaved lad i’ the stable. Reckon he’d be pleased wi’ a word or two from thee.”

Kathleen’s heart thumped erratically. The stable floor seemed to move beneath her feet. She nodded jerkily. “I – I suppose I could see him for a moment.”